


The King and Betsy Butterbur

by PoetryInMotion



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Not Shippy, One Shot, Thorin is moody, after the first scene in Desolation, before the main plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:40:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22774282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoetryInMotion/pseuds/PoetryInMotion
Summary: "The great room of the Prancing Pony was empty, except, Betsy noticed, for the strange man sitting in front of the hearth." Betsy Butterbur has an encounter with the King Under the Mountain. (Cross-posted from fanfiction.net)
Kudos: 5





	The King and Betsy Butterbur

**Author's Note:**

> Hello Friends! Decided to repost this one-shot here to take a break from my main projects. It's a little fluffy, and I hope you enjoy it.

The great room of the Prancing Pony was empty, except, Betsy noticed, for the strange man sitting in front of the hearth. He'd been staring into his ale for a long time since the gray man had spoken with him. Betsy had even refilled his mug a few times, but he hardly seemed to notice, other than to absently thank her under his breath. His voice was quieter than the other patrons, and yet she heard him distinctly when he thanked her. Perhaps that was because she didn't receive many thanks from patrons that came through the door closer to closing.  
“Here you are, Betsy,” her father lumbered over to her genially, “Lock up after you're done. I'm going to go and rest.”  
Betsy smiled. Her father, Barliman Butterbur, had run this inn since he was about her age. Now, it seemed to be getting to him. His feet didn't carry him as far as they used to, and every time he sat, she could hear his knees crack. Her father's hair may not have grayed, but she knew that he was beginning to age.  
“Go on, Da, I'll take care of things down here,” Betsy replied.  
Barliman leaned in close to kiss her cheek, but instead whispered, “Do you need me to take care of him?”  
Betsy cast a quick glance over to the fireplace. Still there. Still brooding. Drinking ale all night, but he didn't look belligerent.  
“I told you, I'll take care of things down here.”  
Barliman nodded and kissed her good night. “If you need me, shout,” he said as he stepped out of the door.  
As the door closed, Betsy resumed wiping down the bar—buying herself some time before taking care of the lingering man in the great room.  
Dwarf, she corrected herself. Yes, he must be. He stood a significant height shorter than the other patrons, and even herself. The way he walked and the way that he was dressed—yes, that was proof as well. Still, she supposed, the confusion was understandable. There was a certain intensity to him that made him seem to be ten feet tall instead of five.  
If she rubbed at the bar anymore, the stain would come right out of the wood. Betsy took a steadying breath, set aside the towel, and stepped out from behind the relative safety of the bar.  
It was as if he could not see or hear her coming. He didn't look up or acknowledge her in any way. But just as Betsy was about to open her mouth, she stopped. Now was her chance.  
The chair scraped against the flagstones as she pulled it out and sat in it. It took the dwarf a minute to realize he had company at his table. When he spoke, it was like a low rumbling of thunder.  
“May I help you?” he asked.  
“Are you all right?”  
Betsy hadn't expected him to be as taken aback as he was. He looked up from the depths of his grog and looked at her. Betsy noticed for the second time how icy his eyes were, but more so what lay behind them.  
“What do you mean?”  
“Well,” Betsy mumbled, “You look as though you have...been through some things. And I was wondering if...if there was anything I could do, sir...anything at all.”  
The dwarf continued to stare at her, as if she were speaking a language from some distant land.  
“What does it matter to you?” he asked, and Betsy was surprised at how the suspicion in his voice hurt her.  
“You have been kind to me. So I would like to be kind to you.”  
“Kind?” the dwarf said, with a sort of humorless chortle.  
“Yes, kind.” Betsy's voice became less tremulous with each word. “You have been very kind to me. When I served you your supper, you smiled and said, 'thank you.' You've a nice smile, if you don't mind me saying so. You didn't shove me away, or ignore me, you didn't try and pinch my arse—oh, bugger! I shouldn't be using words like that, sorry, Your Grace, but you know—”  
Betsy could almost see the dwarf's hackles rising.  
“Your Grace?”  
Betsy immediately knew that she'd made a mistake.  
“Barkeeps know everything, sir.”  
Too cheeky, she reprimanded herself. She had never spoken to a king before, after all.  
“I...I heard some of what you and that wizard were talking about.”  
“Yes. That's obvious.”  
“B-but I won't tell anybody sir, I promise, sir, I know you're in danger, sir, those men, they-they-they were about to try and kill you, sir, but somehow, I knew you could take them both, sir—”  
The dwarf snorted derisively.  
“A child's confidence. It would have left an awful mess for you however it turned out.”  
“I'm not a child, sir, I'm nearly of age, sir.”  
“A child to a dwarf, then.” He paused, and Betsy could see a decision being made behind his eyes.  
“You may call me Thorin, if you wish, so that you do not have to say 'sir' and 'Your Grace' every few words,” the dwarf grumbled.  
So now a name for the face. Thorin, Betsy said in her head. “Thorin,” she tested it out loud. “Where are you from, Thorin?”  
Thorin paused for a moment, considering his answer.  
“The Blue Mountains,” he said after a moment, “It is where my family resides for now.”  
“Where are you really from, then?”  
Thorin looked up at her again, amused.  
“You don't know much of the world, do you?” he asked, not unkindly.  
Betsy shook her head.  
“No, can't say I do. I want to though. I hear there's adventures to the east, with orcs, and eagles, and dragons.”  
“There certainly are dragons,” Thorin grumbled bitterly.  
Betsy leaned in. She paused, carefully trying to choose her words.   
“Would you tell me?”  
Thorin went back into staring at the bottom of his mug.  
“If I were to get you some more ale, would you tell me?”  
Thorin raised an eyebrow. Betsy saw a look that her father often had when someone in the bar got a bit rowdy—a look of weighing the options: fight them now or wait and see. And then, the slightest nod.  
Betsy hastened to the bar, as if the offer were timed, and if she didn't get the ale fast enough, it would be rescinded. She opened a spigot and poured two mugs (she supposed that they would be there for a while, and she might need something too). She came back to the table, set one mug down in front of Thorin (a bit harder than she had intended), sat in her chair, and took a drink.  
“So,” she wondered, “What is your home like?”  
“Erebor.”  
The name was all but inaudible, an awe-filled whisper. But Betsy heard it all the same, and tested it out for herself.  
“Erebor,” she let the word roll over her tongue. Something about the name, whether the foreign nature of the word, or the reverence of the dwarf king sitting across from her, was all together lovely.  
“It's...it's beautiful. The name, I mean.”  
Thorin gave a small smile.   
“If you think the name is beautiful, you should see it.” he began. “It is carved out of a mountain, the Lonely Mountain, far to the east, over the Misty Mountains, and through Mirkwood. It stands alone at the mouth of a river. And when the sun rises over the mountain...it is like nothing you have ever seen before.”  
And so Betsy sipped her ale, and became enthralled with the distant kingdom. Thorin's words seemed to paint the air around them, until Betsy could see nothing but the green stone walls, feel the heat of the forges that lay in the belly of the mines, and see the golden light that seemed to emanate from it all. Thorin seemed to let his guard down bit by bit as he recalled his homeland. Something about describing it to another made the spark in his heart grow more fervent. Betsy knew that there was something morose behind his descriptions, something nostalgic and longing, but was too afraid to ask why.  
“What about your family?”  
Thorin had just begun to describe where the royal family had lived. His eyes grew cloudy, and he seemed to restrict himself to short factual sentences.  
“My sister is back in the Blue Mountains. My younger brother...he is dead. Died in battle alongside me. My grandfather died in the same battle. My mother is dead. My father is nowhere to be seen—”  
“That's not what I meant.”  
A curious look crossed the king's face.   
Betsy explained, “What I meant is, what is your family like? Or, what were they like? If your brother were here tonight, for example, what would he order from me?”  
Thorin thought for a moment. “Do you know, I haven't thought about things like that in a very long time.”  
“Well, try and remember, if you can.”  
“Oh, I can.” Something began to come over Thorin—something akin to humor. “My brother would first ask for mead—horribly sweet to me, but he always loved sweets. He'd probably eat you out of your business, his appetite was endless. I'd have to translate for you, though, seeing as he was unable to hear. He'd likely as not try to...flirt with you.”  
“Flirt with me?”  
“Oh, yes. Frerin was always more confident with women than I.”  
“I'm sure you weren't that bad at it, Thorin. You must have found someone?”  
Thorin was quiet for a moment, and the same melancholy longing came back into his voice.  
“Yes.”  
Betsy knew well enough, by the look in Thorin's eye, to leave well enough alone. She was about to change the topic, but he kept going, much to her surprise.  
“Her name was Àre,” he said, with what Betsy could only describe as wistfulness. “And she hailed from the Iron Hills. She had a certain talent for medicine, which was mightily useful when we were displaced.”   
A smile lurked at the corner of Thorin's mouth, and seemed to grow little by little as he continued.   
“She was bright, incredibly so, of mind and spirit. All the light in Erebor seemed to collect around her. She looked like a queen, and did not need a crown or jewels to look like one. I would have made her a queen above all others—that is what she deserved. She deserved to be adorned like royalty, she deserved to be heard, acknowledged, worshiped. But she was gentle. Above all else, she was gentle, almost to a fault. Gentleness like hers,” Thorin looked Betsy in the eyes, fixing her with an authoritative gaze and a mouth like a straight line, spoke these words as if they were fact, “Is needed sorely in this world. But, more often than not, it is killed, in one way or another.”  
Betsy needed to turn away. His eyes had held her so strongly and intensely that she needed to shake them off, as well as the desire for the ground to open up beneath her. In, and out, she breathed slowly, and tried to take in what Thorin was saying to her. It was almost a warning, grim and foreboding, an adage that she needed to beware of.  
“If you can find a way to keep yours, do it.”  
Betsy met his eyes again, and found that they had softened some, in recognition.  
“Yes. I will try,” she promised, almost subconsciously.  
Thorin nodded in satisfaction. He took a breath, and, his voice more than a whisper, changed the direction of the conversation.  
“Now Dìs,” Thorin continued, “My younger sister. When she was a child, she spent her time shoving other young dwarves, especially those who deigned to tease our brother, into the dirt. She came home one day with a bloody nose and a black eye, and, when Father questioned her about it, she told him, 'But Father, I left him on the floor!' 'Who?' our father asked. She had challenged my friend and peer, Dwalin, to sparring. And Dwalin—even then, he was skilled. I suspect he took it easy on her to not wound her pride.”   
Here, Thorin let out a laugh, and for the first time, it seemed genuine.  
“Granted, she won using a bit of trickery, but it was still quite impressive. Father let her start training with weapons after that.”  
“What sort of trick?”  
Something like a red shadow appeared on Thorin's face. Was...was he blushing?  
“She...kicked him.”  
“Well, that's not so bad, is it?”  
Thorin raised a brow at her, and Betsy suddenly realized exactly what trick Dìs had used. Betsy let out a startled “oh!” followed by a loud, almost embarrassing chortle of laughter. She heard Thorin across from her, laughing much more quietly. His laughter was more like a rumble in the chest, and his mouth never opened. Betsy tried to collect herself—she was in the presence of a king, after all, this was no place for snorting laughter—but every effort for at least a minute did nothing. But she finally settled down enough to hear Thorin's next words.  
“I have not laughed like this in a very long time.”  
“I can tell,” Betsy gasped as the last of her giggles subsided.   
Thorin's face took on a different cast, as if remembering something.  
“Tell me...I am afraid I never heard your name.”  
Betsy straightened herself up as tall as she could.  
“Elizabeth Mary Butterbur. But everybody calls me Betsy,” she added.  
“Well then, my Lady—”  
“Oh, no, no,” she insisted, “I'm no lady.”  
“You have treated me as honorably as any lady I've known.”  
Thorin raised his mug to her and took a drink, apparently not registering her shock.  
Me? A lady. He called me a lady. Not knowing what to do or say, she drank the last of her ale.  
Thorin looked to the window. The sky was now a heather gray—dawn was coming. Clearing his throat and gesturing with his mug, he asked, “How many do I owe you for?”  
Betsy came to herself in time to answer him.  
“Don't worry about it, Thorin,” she said, taking her mug to the bar. Reality started flooding in on her as the light outside grew more visible.  
Oh, no. I stayed awake all night. How am I going to make it through today? I just gave him three pints of ale and drank two my self, Dad's not going to be happy. Ah, bollocks, I still need to sweep up in here. They'll all start coming down for breakfast and I don't have anything ready, oh no, oh no—  
Another mug thudded on the counter next to hers. Next to it jangled a small pouch. Betsy was almost afraid of what was inside of it.  
“Keep all of it,” Thorin said next to her. She still had to look down ever so slightly, but he was taller than she had expected.  
“And,” he added, digging in one of his many pockets, “Just in case...”  
A small knife glinted in the low candlelight. Thorin held it out to her, hilt first.  
“If any man attempts to...pinch your arse,” he explained.  
It was a princely gift. Betsy took it with reverence and examined the hilt. She'd never seen anything like it, and she'd seen her fair share of weapons from strange lands in Bree. She ran her fingers over the grooves and runes in the wood, and turned it over and over just to make sure it was real.  
By the time she looked up, Thorin was almost half way up the stairs.  
“Thorin!” she said, a bit louder than she likely should have.  
Thorin turned to acknowledge her, and Betsy did what all ladies did in her storybooks from when she was a girl—she curtsied. “Your Grace,” she said, almost at a whisper—as if it were a secret that only he could know.  
Betsy knew he'd be surprised, but not as surprised as he was. His eyebrows raised as he came back down the stairs. She didn't know how long a lady was supposed to curtsy for, and her knees were starting to hurt a bit. She was beginning to wobble, much to her embarrassment, when Thorin reached out his hand to her. She took it and stood, not knowing what was coming next.  
Thorin took her hand, pressed a chaste kiss to it, and said, “Lady Betsy.”  
He didn't have to say the other half of his sentence; it was right there in his eyes. They weren't so icy anymore. They were blue still, but there was none of the chill of a frost—now, they seemed almost kind as they told her thank you.  
And with that, Thorin Oakenshield disappeared up the stairs, and Lady Betsy Butterbur stood in shock for a moment before starting her chores, her back straighter, her head held a little higher, a dwarvish knife stuck into her apron pocket.


End file.
